


The Behaviour of Bees

by holyfant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-25
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:23:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyfant/pseuds/holyfant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John is ill, and Sherlock is a bit of an idiot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Behaviour of Bees

**Author's Note:**

> No spoilers. Quite silly. Many gratitudes to [](http://cyntosis.livejournal.com/profile)[**cyntosis**](http://cyntosis.livejournal.com/) for keeping up with my in(s)ane writing of late.

Sherlock throws his pen at the back of John's head when his flatmate comes home one Friday evening from the clinic. John is trying to hang up his coat, and finding it difficult to find the hook for some reason, probably a dull one, like being tired after a day's work.

John turns around at the impact of the pen. “What now?” He's wearing his angry eyebrows, the ones that try to get closer to his hairline. Sherlock likes it when they do that, even if it means John is irritated with something and will probably be nagging him about something soon – they're more aligned that way. His face is an unusual shade of grey, Sherlock notes.

“You're making too much noise,” Sherlock says, looking at John's eyebrows for a moment, because they're still climbing upwards. “I'm trying to think.”

John blinks a couple of times in rapid succession and licks his lips. Sherlock likes it when John licks his lips, too – he does it a lot, and Sherlock likes how it has many meanings (trying to hide embarrassment, failing to hide embarrassment, trying to hide excitement, failing to hide excitement, trying to hide how brilliant he thinks Sherlock is, failing quite miserably to hide how brilliant he thinks Sherlock is – and it's all very nice). Sherlock can almost see his thoughts tacking onto each other – he knows the speed of John's thoughts intimately now, can predict when John will see something or will need some more prodding – and he can see him deciding not to bother after a brief internal argument. John turns away, taking away his eyebrows and lips and goes to the kitchen.

“I'll have some too,” Sherlock calls even before John flicks on the kettle and closes his eyes, diving back into the detailed picture of the gruesome murder scene Lestrade had summoned him to three hours ago. There was something there that didn't belong there and he needs to find it. _three women two heads put to the wrong bodies third one taken away as a message as a lead but there's something else there's something else the blood the blood it's something with the blood the pattern it looks normal it looks right for the angle of the beheading of one of them it's the right amount but still something something_

From the kitchen there's a small silence, and then the gas under the kettle hissing into life. But the heavy creak that follows it, which Sherlock knows to be the chair, is out of sorts. John never sits down during his ritual of tea-making. And then there's John breathing – John's breathing can be very loud at times, and sometimes Sherlock likes that and sometimes he doesn't, like now when he's trying to find the thing that's screaming at him in his head – irregular, too-deep for the minimal exertion of climbing the stairs, almost like he's on the verge of a bout of hyperventilation.

“For god's sake, John, keep quiet,” he says loudly, trying to block John out and zoom in on the irregular swipes of blood on the floor in his mind-crime scene. John's presence is invariably big when he's in, and even when he's not in, because his voice is always there, but it's a little bit more there when he's actually in because then it sometimes surprises Sherlock, which the John-voice that's there when John is out never does. Sherlock prefers it when John's home. But John can take up so much space sometimes, too much, even when Sherlock knows he's not really doing much at all – Sherlock is always so aware of him, of how he moves, of where he is, to what conclusion the wheels in his head are grinding with his own personal speed of thought. Sometimes it helps his thinking to have John around and sometimes it impedes it. (It's one of the things that make living with John not-dull.)

John laughs, but it's not one of the laughs that make Sherlock laugh, too – it's not really a laugh at all, but anger disguised as a laugh, short, a bark. Sherlock has learned from John that other people's emotions like to cloak themselves in each other and that there are layers to peel off before they really show themselves. (Before John, he had never really known there was such an intricacy to emotion; his own feelings are his own, so he gets them quite easily, examines them and chucks them when they're not useful or logical, chucks them when he doesn't get them, because then they can't possibly help him. John has shown him that that is more unusual than even he had figured. Most people, even John, have a structure of emotion that is more like a three-dimensional spider's web than Sherlock's maze, which inevitably leads to a centre. They move up and down strands of interconnectedness, get distracted, don't know where they started, often don't know what the real core is of what they're feeling. He's tried to visualise it once or twice, but it was like a swarm of bees – beautiful in its way, structured on a higher level than its outward appearance, always moving, doubling back on itself; but then it was a bit too overwhelming to continue with, because he couldn't help but link the image to John, and try to find the locations of the emotions he's known John to express, the ones that he could identify, and then he found that there must be so much more, so many feelings he hasn't catalogued and named, and though he's seen that at times it frustrated him that he couldn't do it, couldn't link everything to its proper place, so he abandoned it after a few days, keeping it in a back drawer of his brain. He likes guessing at John's emotions and secretly adding them to the bee swarm when he thinks he's got them down. He suspects John's feelings are the only ones that aren't dull in the whole world, just like Sherlock's mind is the only one that isn't dull in the whole world.)

“Okay, what's wrong,” Sherlock says, without opening his eyes, not even bothering to make it a question.

The chair creaks again, and there's the sound of cupboards opening and closing and water pouring, and John comes back. The clink of his tea cup on the coffee table is too loud, and so is the sound of John dropping himself into the armchair heavily, so Sherlock cracks open an eye.

John's face is still an unusual shade of grey, and his eyebrows are knit together in an angry line, but there's also sweat gathering on his forehead, there is an unhealthy shine of blood under his cheeks, and his eyes are glassy.

Sherlock sits up. “You're obviously ill.”

“Thanks for noticing,” John bites, and then closes his eyes, the exertion of saying it apparently too big.

“Well, you're a doctor,” Sherlock says, and with some interest traces the visible, pounding pulse right under John's jaw bone with his eyes, “what's wrong with you?”

“Flu,” John breathes.

Nothing too interesting, then. In fact, quite expected, with him working in a hospital at this time of year. The statistical likelihood was high. “All right,” Sherlock says, and begins to settle back to get closer to the incongruency in the blood pattern again.

And it almost works, he's almost there, except John is too silent now – he's radiating waves of silence, he's like a negative, drawing Sherlock's thoughts to him. He can practically hear John's heartbeat, feel the heat coming off him – a fever, the onset of a real flu, not just feeling peaky – he can sense John grinding his teeth and pressing a hand into where his stomach is bubbling, trying to decide whether to start working backwards, upwards or to just hurt for the time being. It's both annoying and nice how John manages to always be there, so present, so tangible.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs.

John makes a hoarse sound.

“Say something.”

“Why?” John's voice is raspy.

“You're being too silent.”

A short laugh again, more like a laugh than before – John never really hangs onto anger very long – but still not happy, still not the kind that makes Sherlock laugh. But then he's up, suddenly, and running to the bathroom. Sherlock sits up, the blood backing out of his consciousness without him really wanting it to, because the sounds of John being sick in the loo are harsh, they sound painful, it's not something he's ever heard John do.

He gets up and goes to the bathroom door, that John despite everything has managed to close behind him and puts his ear to it. He listens to how John's vomit hits the porcelain of the loo, the thick splashes of it, and John during all of it, gagging, gasping, swearing in the intervals between heaves.

Without really thinking about it, he opens the door.

And John starts quite violently, and says “Sherlock,” so thickly, so menacingly, that Sherlock is puzzled for a moment.

He squats next to John.

“No, Sherlock, go – go away,” John forces out before another bout of retching overtakes him and he loses the ability to speak for a bit. Sherlock watches him, wrinkling his nose at the smell of acidity, and tries to imagine how John feels. It's been decades since he himself was sick. Or at least, decades since he was sick and not drugged out of his skull, decades since he was sick and could actually remember it afterward. The final time he can remember was when he was seven.

“Why?” he asks when John leans back on his heels again.

John's hand is pushing at him, John isn't looking at him.

“Don't want you here,” he gurgles, shivering.

“I'm not easily put out,” Sherlock responds – John, good John, who probably wants to spare him the spectacle, because that would be something he would do, who can be forgiven for at a time like this to have forgotten that Sherlock has been close to vomit dozens of times.

“No,” John growls, and his fingers catch a hold of Sherlock's shirt, “Don't want you here. Go away. Leave – leave me alone.” And he pushes Sherlock backwards quite forcefully.

And Sherlock doesn't understand, but then gets to his feet and leaves John alone, shutting the door behind him. He can hear John throwing up again.

When John comes out, cradling a glass of water, wobbly on his feet, and practically stumbling into the armchair, Sherlock watches him carefully from the couch.

“Why didn't you –” he begins, but John puts up a hand, and then looks vaguely surprised that it actually stopped Sherlock from finishing his sentence.

“'s Humiliating,” he mutters, and he licks his lips – trying to hide embarrassment, Sherlock thinks.

“It's not,” Sherlock counters, “You have the flu. It's logical.”

“You watching me.” John's eyes flutter shut. “Makes me feel vulnerable.”

And Sherlock examines the feeling of tenderness that bubbles in his chest at John, John, still being afraid of vulnerability, still being afraid of having to be helped, even after all that time of never needing his crutch anymore, even after all those times when Sherlock caught him taking off his shirt or strolling through the flat fresh from the shower with a towel around his hips without thinking about his scar at all. He resists the urge to point out that John _is_ vulnerable right now, with an obvious fever, in obvious pain. John is shivering slightly. His hair is stuck in the sweat on his temple.

Sherlock isn't sure what to do. He doesn't want John to feel vulnerable at a time when it obviously makes him uncomfortable, even though Sherlock usually likes it when John is vulnerable. He knows John should be laying down, in his bed or on the sofa, with a blanket on his body, with something cold on his face. But he doesn't want John to feel humiliated by him suggesting it, so he just sits for a long while, debating himself on how to go about this.

When John relaxes into the armchair, his flushed face going slack and his breathing slowing, Sherlock crouches closer to him after waiting ten minutes and slowly puts a blanket from the couch over him. John doesn't respond, is obviously quite deeply asleep already, so Sherlock carefully touches his finger to John's forehead, and then, at the lack of response, cups his hand around John's temple. The fever is quite alarming against his hand, and he wonders for a moment if he should take John's temperature, but then discards the thought because the thermometer would wake John up, and maybe John wouldn't like it, maybe it would make him feel even more vulnerable. So Sherlock goes to cool his hand under the tap, dries it and gently puts it back against John's face, the shock of hotness an interesting, quite nice sensation against his skin. John shifts, and his head falls sideways. At the shock of that he jolts awake, and then jolts again at Sherlock's hand on his cheek. Sherlock quickly draws back.

“What're you –” John murmurs blearily. The white of his eyes is now pinkish, Sherlock notes with some fascination.

“Nothing,” he says.

“You've put a blanket on me.” John is getting better at deduction.

“Yes.”

“Were you taking my temperature?” John sounds resigned.

“No. Obviously not,” Sherlock mutters. At John's half-raised eyebrow – _even his eyebrows lack energy_ – he says: “I'm not a doctor, I can't actually tell your temperature just from that. I was... trying to cool you off.”

John gives a small chuckle, then a big cough. “So not just trying to experiment on me?”

Sherlock is silent. He's always experimenting on John, really, and John doesn't ever mind unless it's something that qualifies as an experiment _to John_ , like spiking John's tea or secretly setting up a camera in John's room after having put an open bottle of chloroform in his closet, to check what the effects of it would be and how it would make him sleep. (That one had made John very, very mad. Furious. Sherlock had put the furious he had seen from John then somewhere in the middle of the bee swarm, because it was so mixed up with so many other things, so impure, so uncontrolled, so layered, and so surprising, yet John had looked so natural, hair flying, teeth glittering; he had even punched Sherlock in the face during this fight, had grabbed him so harshly it had left bruises on his arms, and later he'd apologised for that so profusely Sherlock had thought he would curl into a ball and attempt to die of misery. John was confusing in his intensities sometimes. In that fight there had been a jumble of _you don't get to drug me in my sleep_ and _you certainly don't get to film me in my sleep_ and Sherlock still isn't sure which was dominant, or if it maybe was the combination, but John was adamant that he should never watch the tape, and despite his logic, ratio, appeals and eventually screaming John didn't back down, so Sherlock eventually had to give in and handed it over to John, because he knew that there were lines even for John, and the blazing look in his eyes and his eyebrows almost against his hairline had told Sherlock that he was one foot over it already, and only the other foot could still save the whole situation. Later Sherlock realised it was the first time he had wanted to save a situation for any other reason than the recuperation of a logical or strategic link. He'd stored that away, hadn't even tried to fit it into his own emotional maze, because it seemed to fall outside of it, somehow.) So this is an experiment, like all of the things he does to John and with John, but even he can tell the difference between this and stealing John's hair to do keratin experiments with it in the lab. There's an emotional component to this that feels quite natural. He wants John to feel not-bad. It usually makes him feel not-bad when John feels not-bad. But he can't answer John's question with anything but a: _It is an experiment, actually_ , so he says nothing, because he's learned that John doesn't like feeling like an experiment. They mean it in different ways, he's come to realise, and when that really hit him it had been hard for a few days to talk to John, because at every word Sherlock questioned whether it was the same thing for them. He wondered at language for a while after that.

He gets to his feet. “John, you have the flu, a real one. It will be a bout of days, I can tell by how your skin feels, it's really quite hot even if I can't tell your exact temperature from it, I can tell from how your eyes look, they're bloodshot and glassy and dehydrated. Most likely you'll be out for at least four days. The conclusion is that you should lie down on the sofa.” He's talking fast even for him. He waits for John's response a bit anxiously.

“Yeah,” John just sighs, and reaches out a hand and closes it around Sherlock's arm, “just... help me up, will you.”

And Sherlock swallows, because he doesn't want John to ask for help if it's making him secretly feel bad, but if John asks like that there's no logical reason to refuse, and anyway, he wants John to feel not-bad as soon as possible, and lying down is imperative to that, so he closes his hand over John's and tugs him up with his arm. John propels himself into the sofa and then twists around until he's lying on his back. His eyes are closed already, and his face is grey-red, and there are visible beads of sweat on his forehead.

Sherlock leans over him, on his knees next to the couch, feeling the heat coming off him, until John cracks an eye open. “You're actually breathing on me. I can actually feel your breath,” he says, smiling, and that makes Sherlock feel not-bad.

“Is that good?” he still asks, because he knows emotions sometimes hide themselves in each other.

“It's...” John coughs, eyes closing again. “It's different.”

And that doesn't really mean anything to Sherlock, but John would tell him if it was bad, so it's probably good, or not-bad at least. So he stays like that for a bit. It's actually very interesting. He's never seen John with the flu. It's entirely new. And this way he can track the movements of John's eyes under his lids and the winding and unwinding of his eyebrows while also thinking about the blood; the pictures overlay quite easily. But the blood is still a mystery; he'll have to go back to the crime scene to see where this idea that something is wrong comes from.

“John,” he says after a while.

John makes a non-committal sound.

“Is this making you feel vulnerable?”

John opens his eyes and looks at him.

“Because I'm watching you right now. You didn't want me to before,” Sherlock tries to explain.

“I was being sick in the loo then,” John says, as if that makes sense.

“You're lying ill on the sofa now,” Sherlock points out.

John's chuckle becomes a cough. “Yes,” he says when he calms down, “but being watched while throwing up or being watched while lying down isn't really the same thing.”

“Right,” Sherlock says and stores that away. So it matters what John is doing when Sherlock is watching him. He thought so, remembering how livid John had been at Sherlock wanting to watch the tapes of him sleeping and how he'd yelled incomprehensible things at Sherlock when he had tried to explain that Sherlock really watches him all the time, anyway, so how was it any different? This is another one of those things. Thankfully not as angry.

“Can you make me some more tea?” John asks without opening his eyes. “Don't spike it, please.”

Sherlock is actually quite loath to leave his place by the couch, but he knows John will like it if he's nice to him, especially now that he's not feeling vulnerable anymore, so he gets up and makes tea. He debates spiking it with some booze, and he would have if John hadn't explicitly told him not to – now that John can't defend himself, it doesn't seem like something he'd want to do, even if it might make John feel a little better. During the making of the tea, John falls asleep. So he makes more tea, and more tea, and texts Lestrade with the announcement that he will need more time at the crime scene, and makes some more tea, and texts Lestrade to inform him that murderers work at night too, so stop complaining, and makes some more tea, and texts Lestrade with the question whether he'd been brilliant for once and figured it out himself yet, then, and makes some more tea, and texts Lestrade with the gleeful but logical conclusion that he'd better stop whining and let him take another look at it in that case.

John wakes up as he's about to step out the door, and lets out a laugh at the seven cups of tea on the coffee table.

“Overdoing it a bit, Sherlock,” he mutters, but he's asleep again before Sherlock can respond. Sherlock listens to his breathing for a split second before going down the stairs; he catches himself being as silent as possible.

When he gets back, brain pounding with action _the smell the smell it wasn't human blood at any rate something got beheaded there just not those women_ he clears the cups of tea. John is sleeping in the exact same position, but he has drunk two of the seven cups. Overdoing it a bit.

John wakes up at the clinking when Sherlock dumps the cups into the overflowing sink.

He groans.

“You look like a car ran you over in my absence,” Sherlock tells him from the kitchen.

John can only manage a raw, throaty sound in response. Sherlock picks up a relatively clean towel from the kitchen table and wets it under the tap. When he carefully drapes it over John's forehead, John lets out a sigh of such pure satisfaction that it makes Sherlock want to try it too – but he hasn't got a fever, and it won't feel nearly as nice.

He leans over John again, trying to find signs of progression, but he only looks stickier than before, nothing else. He's not sure what to do; between accidentally humiliating John, then leaving him alone for too long and then overdoing it the other way he's starting to think handling John when he's ill is something that requires someone with less analytical skills than he has.

John's mumbling something. He puts his ear closer to his face to catch it.

“'m glad you're back,” he makes out.

“You have a fever,” Sherlock says in response, because John wouldn't normally voice things like that.

“Myeah,” John mutters, “but it's still true.”

Sherlock gives in to the completely logically justifiable urge to put his fingers to John's pulse. The skin of his neck is burning, but the thudding is slow and peaceful.

“'s nice,” John hums. Sherlock finds himself agreeing. John licks his lips. Expressing something. Sherlock's not sure what.

“Can I –” he begins, and because John is someone with less analytical skills than he has and with skills in other departments that he doesn't have, John lifts his legs under his blanket with some effort even before Sherlock has voiced the question. Sherlock slips under his legs, into the heat of John's feverish body trapped there, and takes John's blanketed feet into his lap.

He listens. John's breathing is steady. He examines the slow, silent, tired contentedness on John's face and fits it into John's bee swarm – at the fringes, at many crossroads, an underlying presence in every internal structure of it. He wonders briefly if there are names for all of the things that make up John's web of emotion. Language is a strange thing; it's something that he hadn't really known before John, but now he does, and he doesn't know if there are enough words to cover all of the things that sometimes happen to John's eyebrows or his mouth. He sighs.

He lets his mind run over the crime scene. The press of John's heels into his thigh, his tangibility, his sharply outlined presence, make it easier to return there. This time John enables his thinking. It's a good time for it. Sherlock curls a hand around John's calf and closes his eyes, head racing.


End file.
